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THE FOE T'S QUEST 



OTHER POExMS. 



Bv CHARLES JAMES CANNON, 




N E W-Y O R K : 
PUBLISHED BY CASSERLY & SONS, 

NO. 108 NASSAU STREET. 



1841. 



f5 12^^ 



Entered according to the Act of Congress in the 3'car 1840, by 

CHARLES JAMES CANNON, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States of the 

Southern District of New- York. 



Alex. S. Gould, Printer, No. 144 Nassau-street, N. Y. 



The principal poem in tliis little volume was, nearly 
t\vo years ago, prepared for the press at tlie earnest 
request of a very dear friend — the late James Craufurd 
LivinXtSton ; and is now published in fulfilment of a pro- 
mise to the Dead — yet not without the hope of approbation 
from the Living. 



TO 



A callow bird, tliat from liie parent nest 
Had fallen, helpless lay upon the ground ; 
And there the weak and shivering thing was found 
By one who kindly warmed it on her breast ; 
And who, to give the little trembler rest, 
Built it a home amid her garden", where 
It felt the genial sun and balmy air, 
And peace and joy once more its heart possessed. 
" But, lady, how," the grateful birdling cried, 
" Can I e'er make thee recompense ? To me 
To ply the silk-worm's art it is denied, 
Or sweets to hoard like the industrious bee. 
I can but sing ! Yet thou wilt not despise 
What the heart prompts, though couched in humble guise." 



1» 



^mn ipcDn^iF^^ (gwn^^c 



The page of life is aye the same. 

But that which seems to eye of youth 

A gUttering scroll of Love and Fame, 

Of Honour and of Truth, 
To him whom Time hath rightly taught to read 
Its mystick lines — is Vanity indeed ! 

I late beheld a thoughtless child 

That did right eagerly pursue 

The down, which on the breezes wild, 

Boyond him ever flew. 
How like to Love that thistle down ! methought. 
So hard to win ! so little worth when caught ! 

And then, of bootless toil not grown 
Yet weary, turned he to pursue 
A ball from pipe of urchin blown ; — 
And that escaped him too. 
I sighed to think with man it is the same — 
Now lured by Love — now by the bubble Fame. 



THE POETS QUEST. 

O Love and Fame ! to whom my soul 
With all its noblest powers did bow ; 
Who could my heart's strong tides control 
How do I prize you now ? 



As water poured upon the sand — a gleam 
Of falling star — a scarce remembered dream ! 

Alas ! my life has been a dream ! 

And time, for better things bestowed, 

With me, like sluggish woodland stream. 

Hath onward idly flowed ; 
Bearing, among the weeds upon its bosom. 
Full many a withered leaf and blighted blossom. 

And yet, of even the busiest life, 
How much is spent — though wasted not — 
In dreams ? when sorrow, toil and strife 
Are for a while forgot — 

Or when even to those very clouds are given 

The sunset glories of a summer even ? 

And sad, indeed, the lot of him 

Who cannot hope to dream again ; 

Whose future is nor bright nor dim ; 

Present — nor joy nor pain ; 
Whose heart, which erst o'crflowed witii tenderness, 
Is arid now, and cold and passionless ! 



THE POETS QUEST. 

Such lot is mine ! My dream is past ! 

The fabrick by my fancy reared 

Is on the earth in ruins cast ; 

Even hope hath disappeared ; 
And in my graveward path is left to me 
Companion none, save mocking memory ! 

O bright-eyed Hope ! and Memory, 

The pale and sorrovi^ful ! Ye are 

To voyagers on Life's rough sea 

Their morn and evening star. 
Or rather, ye are but the shadow^s cast 
By travellers o'er the future and the past. 

For when we forth at morning tide. 
To journey westward with the sun. 
Our shadows, like a faithful guide. 
Before us ever run. 
And thus with man, whatever his condition. 
Youth's ardent hopes still leave behind fruition. 

But, as we onward fare, and ere 
Our toilsome journey is complete, 
Our shadows lag in their career, 
And shrink beneath our feet. 
And so with man in every age it proves, 
His hopes grow less as on through life he moves. 



10 THE I'OEt's quest. 

But when llie eve is closing round, 
Behold ! they turn them back again, 
And fondly linger on the ground 
O'er which we passed with pain. 
And thus it is that memory oftenest clingclh 
To that which to the heart no pleasure bringeth I 

And hence it is my memory chngs 
To all the past. There is no spot 
On which she now her shadow flings 
Where grief has found me not ; 
Nor moment whose remembrance can impart 
One gleam of light to this benighted heart. 

My childhood even — the darling theme 
Of those who, through the lapse of years, 
Remember but the transient beam 
That glittered through its tears — 
My very childhood — whatsoe'er it be 
To others— far from cloudless was to me. 

For at my hearth sat Poverty, 
That squalid witcli ! while Sickness w^an, 
And Toil, that earns so drudgingly 
The crust he feeds upon. 
Were those with whom I then was forced to dwell ;- 
Yet love could make even these endurable, 



THE poet's quest. 11 

Mij motlier^s love ! And that indeed 

A treasure was above all price ; 

That for whate'er I stood in need 

Could of itself suffice. 
My 7nolJier^s love J Even now its recollection 
Wakes in my heart the life-pulse of affection I 

And reason must her throne forsake — 

Frozen my life's warm current be, 

My mother ! ere shall fail to wake 

That pulse at thought of thee I 
Albeit thy love, though precious 'twas and sweet, 
Prepared me ill with worldings to compete. 

For wheresoe'er a vagrant will 

Directed, I was free to roam, 

Sure that a kindly welcome still 

Awaited me at home ; 
Until my love of solitude became 
A passion wiiich even time hath failed to tame. 

And now, when weary of the strife 

That wilh his fellow man maintains, 

To win ^ome little name in life, 

Or multiply his gains, 
I wander forth, and am in all once more 
A child — save that my childhood's dreams arc o'er. 



12 THE poet's quest. 

Those glorious dreams ! when lost amid 

The everlasting hills; or when 

In bosom of the forest hid ; 

Or in untrodden glen, 
Where echo, to my halloo answering, 
I thought the mocking voice of living thing ; — 

Or stretched on marge of glassy stream, 
Wherein a nether heaven was seen, 
Radiant with noontide's dazzling beam, 
Or sunset's golden sheen ; 
Wearing the pensive hue of eve, or bright 
With myriads of gems of living light ; — 

Or laid on mossy couch, that high 

Above the brattling torrent hung, 

I slumbered to the lullaby 

The crooning waters sung ; 
Or sat, while birdlings sang in sweet idlesse, 
In some bright spot amid the wilderness ; — 

Or when among the breathing flowers. 
With drowsy sense but waking eye, 
Supinely have I lain for hours 
In gazing on the sky. 
Fashioning the clouds that crossed its azure plain 
Into the forms that long had filled my brain. 



THE poet's quest. 13 

The tower of strength ; the castle grand ; 

The gallant steed and warrior bold ; 

The crowned head and sceptred hand, 

Of which I had been told 
In tale or song of lands beyond the sea, 
When evening found me at my mother's knee- 

And aye that stately castle's lord ; 

The rider of that goodly steed ; 

That king by countless hosts adored — 

Was the poor child of need 
Whose sun-burnt brow and feet by brambles torn, 
Save nature's covering, aught had never worn. 

But open to the homeless wight 

That castle's gates forever stood ; 

And never more did king or knight 

Rejoice in doing good ; 
And thousands daily at the board were fed 
Of him who oft went supperless to bed. 

But not among the clouds alone 

The visions of my dreams were found. 

When birds to other climes had flown, 

And snow lay deep around, 
And man and beast sought shelter from the storm, 
The winter hearth revived each pictured form. 
2 



14 THE poet's quest. 

And new desires — and vague as new — 

Now sprang to life within my breast. 

Restless and moody thence I grew ; 

Sleep brought not wonted rest ; 
The seeds of wild ambition, deeply sown 
In my young heart, now made their presence known. 

And never yet did prisoned bird, 
When some free warbler's gladsome song 
Is in his lonely dwelling heard. 
More passionately long 
To spread his wings and soar to heaven, than I 
To gain with men a name that should not die. 

But this seemed to my lot denied. 

For all as easy 'twere for him 

Whose hands are pinioned to his side 

Against the tide to swim. 
As for a dweller in life's lowly vale 
The steep and slippery heights of Fame to scale. 

And though, 't is true, full many a path 

Leads to its dazzling summit, none 

It to the eye of boyhood hath 

But that of war alone, 
From which I shuddering turned, for, ah I it bore 
At every step the stains of human gore. 



THE poet's quest. 

But when at distance I beheld 
Where bright the tracks of Genius shone, 
My heart with strong impatience swelled 
That path to enter on. 

But, to destroy the hope born of that glance, 

Before me rose the giant Ignorance. 

And, while a cold and vacant smile 

Across his stolid features stole. 

He stood, like some barbarian pile. 

Between me and the goal 
I longed to reach ; and, O ! beneath his eye 
I felt my very soul within me die ! 

But then I thought of him of old 

Who with a pebble and a sling, 

O'ercame the man whose name could hold 

In fear a mighty king. 
But he was one no doubtings could depress. 
And unto such Heaven ne'er denies success. 

Yet sling and stone I scarce could wield. 

What I had felt and mourned for years, 

My father's scorn — ^but ill concealed — 

My mother's silent tears, 
When on my pallid br*)W and ashen cheek 
She gazed, too well confirmed. Yes, I was weak ! 



15 



16 THE poet's quest. 

And weak is mind's undying flame 
When, like an incubus, disease 
Hath long oppressed its mortal frame. 
Numbing its energies. 
But ROW, endued with sudden power, I rose. 
The giant met, and straight did with him close. 

And fierce the struggle. But at length 
The monster to the earth I bore. 
Dost wonder what could give such strength 
To one so weak before ? 
Ask thine own heart, and that will answer give — 
♦' Nothing but Love could such a deed achieve." 

Yes, Love it was that strength bestowed. 

Or, as I should more truly say, 

'Twas the diviner's rod which showed 

Where hid the treasure lay. 
Oft in the meanest breast a mine is found 
That does with ore more rich than gold abound. 

And she who had existence given 
To that which o'er my spirit shed 
The warm and glorious hues of heaven, 
But now so cold and dead 
Has left the heart that cherished it, was one 
As fair as eye of man e'er dwelt upon. 



THE poet's quest. 

The sapling in its leafy dress, 

And by the vernal breezes swayed, 

Could equal not in gracefulness 

The form of that young maid. 
In which each day did some new charm disclose, 
As in the bud ere yet a full blown rose. 

But what can with her face compare ? 

Not lovelier is the pride of June, 

The silver moon is not more fair ; 

Yet 'twas not like the moon — 
So pale and sad ! No, rather like the sun, 
Which gladdens every thing he shines upon. 

And yet it was not like the sun, 

That looks on all unshrinkingly ; 

For, though a bright and happy one, 

'Twas veiled with modesty ; 
And, while with fearless step she ranged the wild, 
Her eye was like the fawn's— timid and mild. 

And then her voice ! A.mong the hills 
When heard all nature cried, " Rejoice !" 
Even now my bosom wildly thrills 
As memory wakes that voice ! 
The form and face the fancy may enthrall — 
The voice makes captive heart and soul and all, 
2* 



17 



18 THE poet's quest. 

Nay, dotard, peace ! It is not well, 
For him who would all love forswear, 
With such fond eloquence to dwell 
On charms however rare. 
Fairer was Eden ne'er in happiest hours 
Than when a serpent lurked beneath its flowers. 

But, having with a mighty bound 

The barrier by Ignorance reared 

O'erleaped, I trod the sacred ground 

Which erst so fair appeared. 
And, if at distance seen it had seemed fair, 
It now was beautiful beyond compare. • 

For myriads there — of every dye — 
Of flowers that long had lain concealed — 
Gems hidden from the careless eye — 
Were now to me revealed ; 
And 'mid the treasures that around me blushed, 
A thousand springs of limpid silver gushed. 

And all the feelings of my soul. 

Which, hke obstructed waters, long 

Had struggled to escape control, 

Now in a stream of song 
Burst forth. Mine was the minstrel's power ; — I knew 
Not then the curse that ever clings thereto ! 



THE poet's quest. 19 

But, like the steed whose spirit ne'er 

Has been by servitude debase^, 

I entered on my new career 

With hot and furious haste ; 
And had the race been to the swift, not now 
Had been my heart more withered than my brow ! 

For one wild passion filled my soul — 

My thoughts by day — my dreams by night — 

And for all pains to reach that goal 

Would Marian's love requite. 
My Marian's love ! That guerdon to secure 
There was no evil I would not endure. 



And much I bore ! My father's grave 

Was tenanted ; and to supply 

His place — my mother's age to save 

From sordid penury — 
I gave, unmurmuring, my days to toil; 
Yet wasted not the less the midnight oil, 

For oft the precepts of the sage — 
More oft the poet's golden lay — 
Have bowed me spell-like, o'er the page 
From eve till morning gray, 
And though the earthly frame 'neath this excess 
Might sink, the spirit owned no weariness. 



20 THE POETS QUEST. 

But now my mother's eye grew dim, 
And languid was her step ; her cheek 
Waxed pale, for aye she thought of him 
Of whom she dared not speak ; 
And if she chanced to smile 'twas not in mirth ; — 
For her had desolation clothed the earth. 

holy love ! Though he, to whom 
The treasure she had yielded up 

Of that fond heart in girlhood's bloom, 

Had filled the bitter cup 
Of suffering for her to the very brim. 
It sweeter was than joy unshared with bim. 

And though she lingered yet awhile, 

1 saw — and O my bosom bled 
To see — in that cold ghastly smile 
Her heart was with the dead ; 

For her's that love which knoweth no decay 
When all which gave it life has passed away. 

And now she sank apace. Mo moan 
Escaped her quivering lips ; — her cheek 
Was tearless ; — calm and sweet her tone 
While she had strength to speak ; — 
And from my face she turned her kind gaze never 
Until the light of love was quenched forever. 



THE poet's quest. 21 



In vain the laughing morn— in vain 

The grateful breeze wooed me abroad 

To lie among the flowers again 

That pranked the verdant sod ; 
In vain with burning breath the fierce noon strove 
To drive me forth where waved the rustling grove 



And even eve — sweet pensive eve — 

Called to me from the hills in vain ; 

My dreary watch I would not leave 

At that sad couch of pain 
While hope was left. When that was from me swept, 
In spirit crushed, I threw me down and wept. 



For long, long hours 1 could but weep. 

And when at length I did control 

That storm of grief, a shadow deep, 

Settled upon my soul ; 
And I believed — as all must once like me 
Believe— in sorrow's immortality. 

But no ! Howe'er affliction chain 

The spirit to the earth, it will. 

If but one spark of hope remain. 

Rise up triumphant still. 
And soon my love of fame— that smouldering fire- 
Burst forth into a flame of wild desire 



22 THE poet's quest. 

Yet not in forest wild and deep, 
In moonlight glen, nor shadowy nook, 
Nor 'mid the hills where echoes sleep 
Was I for fame to look. 
No, though immortal, 'tis of mortal birth, 
And must be sought among the sons of earth. 

So I must forth. But like the bird 
With untried wing outspread for flight, 
Though onward by ambition spurred, 
I trembled with affright. 
And had, but for the hope that led me on, 
The darling purpose of my soul foregone. 

Yet manfully I tlien arose, 
And sundered all the ties which bind 
The poor fond heart to scenes like those 
I now must leave behind ; — 
My home — though comfortless, indeed, and lone- 
It was the only one I e'er had known ; — 

And many a spot in solitude 
That sacred was to days gone by, 
Where, prompted by some nameless mood, 
I wept, yet knew not why ; — 
For o'er my spirit even in infancy 
Was cast the shadow of my destiny ; — 



THE poet's quest. 23 

And eke the place where side by side 

My parents lay in dreamless sleep; — 

No mark it bore of love or pride 

Their memories to keep 
From being swept away in Time's dark sea ; — 
But then my name their monument should be. 

My name ! When I have laid me down 

To sleep in lap of Mother Earth, 

As little shall of me be known 

As those who gave me birth ; — 
Mine, after all, is but the common lot — 
A life of toil — to die — and be forgot ! 

But not alone to native cot — 

To scenes where I had mused and wept — 

Nor to the undistinguished spot 

Where my poor parents slept — 
Though each my heart enchained with powerful spell, 
To Marian too I now must bid farewell. 

Farewell ! A word, when lightly said 

That, like a cloud at sunny noon, 

Throws all that's lovely into shade ; 

Or, like a blast in June 
Which steals its sweetness from the opening flower, 
That falls upon the heart with chilling power. 



24 THE poet's quest. 

But when it is in sadness spoken, 
It tells of friendship's shivered chain ; — 
Of links of fond affection broken 
Ne'er to unite again ; — 
Of joy, and O of hope, too oft the knell 
Is that short, bitter, withering v.'ord — Farewell I 

And now in bitterness of soul 
Farewell was said ; and on my Quest 
I went. But distant aye the goal 
For which I hotly pressed. 
Alas ! the cooling lymph I longed to taste 
Proved but the mirage of the burning waste ! 

And then — known to the world no more 
Than ere its notice I had sought — 
And poor, save in the bitter lore 
By stern experience taught — 
I homeward turned — of Fame no longer dreammg- 
Yet, Love possessed for me its early seeming. 

Yes, though my bark — long tempest tossed — 
Upon the waves a wreck was flung, 
There still remained when all seemed lost 
One plank to which I clung. 
My Marian's love ! O to how frail a thing 
Will drowning wretch in desperation cling ! 



THE POETS QUEST. 

Now weary, faint and travel-stained, 

I stood upon the mount above 

The quiet vale, which erst contained 

All objects of my love. 
The quiet vale I Ah no ! unsparing change 
Had been before me there, and all was strange. 

No vestige was there of my home ! 

The vale itself had disappeared ; 

And glittering fane and lordly dome 

"Were from its depths upreared ; 
And all the city's jarring sounds were heard 
Where sang of late the brooklet and the bird. 

The bird was flown ; that brooklet's course 
Was not the one by nature given, 
But, turned aside by human force, — 
Lost to the light of heaven, — 
It sought another channel to the main 
Through hills which now lie buried in the plain. 

Was this my home ! No place of rest ; — 
No shelter for my aching head ; 
Nay busy life even now possessed 
The spot where slept my dead ! 
My cup was full ;— but yet to run it o'er 
With bitterness, there needed one drop more. 
3 



25 



26 THE poet's quest. 

And that was added. As I stood 
In thought perplexed, a fairy form — 
With too much loveliness endued 
For sister of the worm — 
Passed by me with a bounding step, and eye 
Bright with her pure young heart's hilarity. 

My youth returned ! and with the eyes 

Of other days upon that child 

I looked ; and all the memories 

Long buried in the wild 
Dark ocean of the Past rose up, and I 
In her beheld my Star of Destiny. 

Illusion fond ! which reason cold 
Too soon dispelled ! That radiant face ; — 
Those buoyant steps, and locks of gold ; — 
That form of childish grace ; — 
Though like to her's whom I long years ago 
Had left, would time have spared them still ? O no 

Then turned I from that vision bright, 
With smiling lip, but humid eye. 
When, lo ! a being met my sight 
Of bearing proud and high. 

Whose smooth, fair brow and eye serene expressed 

A mind exalted and a heart at rest. 



THE poet's quest. 27 

Time had — to mellow, not destroy — 

Her beauties touched ; and though he had 

Sobered the feverish pulse of joy ; 

Serious now — not sad — 
Was the fond look with which she watched that wild 
And happy thing, and blessed it as Her Child ! 

My brain was troubled. And on her 

With strange devotion as she passed 

I gazed. But ne'er on worshipper 

Did senseless image cast 
A more unseeing eye than that which fell 
Upon me, as I stood — mute and immoveable. 

'TwAS She ! The curse of memory 

Was mine alone — She knew me not. 

And I had come o'er land and sea — 

To find I was forgot ! 
I turned me thence without or sigh or tear — 
With nothing left to hope — and nought to fear I 



IP CD li IM 



A TRIBUTE OF THE HEART. 

I KNOW 'tis very wrong to grieve when those from earth have passed, 
Whose dying pangs, though bitter, we beheve to be their last ; 
Yet have I with repining heart o'er one departed mourned, 
Whose spirit — springing from the dust — had to its God returned. 

But I had loved — with love as deep and boundless as the sea ; 
And even as my love had been was now my grief to me ; 
And but for Him whose mercy sets to every thing its bound. 
Long since in its unfathomed depths my reason had been drowned ! 

What though but few the charms in her that stranger eyes could see, 
Whate'er she was to others, she was beautiful to me ; 
And with a beauty which nor time, nor even pain could dim. 
Nor death — which now hath changed it to that of the seraphim. 

But who had failed to love her that, like me, her worth had proved, 
When even by those who knew her least she was not unbeloved ? 
And while above the lowhest no eminence she claimed, 
Still by the poor and sorrowing with blessings was she named. 

3* 



30 POEMS. 

For though 'twas ne'er her lot to eat the bread of idleness, 
She had an ever open hand to all that knew distress ; 
And then so graciously she gave out of her little store, 
She ever sent the burthened heart rejoicing from her door. 

And while from virtue's path she ne'er in thought even turned aside. 
She ever had a kindly word another's faults to hide ; 
But when, with all her care, she failed to keep those faults from view, 
With every word of blame from her fell tears of pity too. 

And when with anguish torn, which might a sterner spirit wring, 

From her pale lip was never heard the voice of murmuring ; 

But placid was her brow as one that pain had never known, 

And through the gathering mists of death the light of love still shone. 

Then, like an infant fallen asleep upon its mother's breast, 
With the sweet smile of innocence upon its lips impressed, 
She sank into forgetfulness — and gently passed from earth ; — 
Leaving to me no solace — but the memory of her worth ! 



POEMS. 31 



THE DEATH OF JAMES CRAUFURD LIVINGSTON. 

The hand of Desolation o'er 

A lute of heavenly tone hath passed ; 
A tree, that buds of promise bore 

Of golden fruit, to earth is cast. 

A light is quenched whose cheering beam 

Was felt at many a lonely hearth ; 
And sealed a fount, from which a stream 

Flowed forth to fertilize the earth I 

The cold, inexorable tomb 

Has closed upon the hope of years ; 
And Friendship weeps the early doom 

Of one that's gone with bitter tears. 

'Tis sad to see the young depart, — 

Like flowers swept in their bloom away, — 

But O 'tis sadder to the heart 
To see them wither day by day ! 



To mark the slow, but certain blight, — 
To catch the stifled groan of pain ; — 

To watch the waning of that light 
Which ne'er shall beam on us again. 



32 POEMS. 

Then, though the tear of fond regret 
Affection's eye must ever dim, 

The blessed hope we'll not forget, 
That loss to us is gain to him ; — 

That now the eagle spirit, chained 
To earth, and struggling to be free, 

Its glorious heritage hath gained 
And soared to immortality ! 



NAPOLEON. 

Napoleon ! There was a time 

When at that talismanick word 

All hearts — whate'er their creed or clime — 
Would leap as if a trump were heard S 

And the hot blood throughout the frame 
Would flash ! It was the name of him 

Beneath the splendour of whose fame 
The glories of the world were dim. 

The monarch bird whose mighty wings 
Shut out the sun's meridian blaze ; 

Whose perch was on the necks of kings, 

While nations cowered beneath his gaze ! 



POEMS. 33 



And now, whene'er is breathed that name, 
Before the memory brightly flits 

Full many a scene of deathless fame — 
Marengo — Jena — Austerlitz — 

And Wagram — terribly sublime I 

And lo I where Lodi's Bridge is cast 

Across the cold, dark stream of Time 
To join the future and the past I 

With those — ^"mid sadness glorious too-^ 
Imperial Moscow's funeral pile ; 

The fatal field of Waterloo, 

And stern St. Helen's dreary isle I 

But though in dust that banner proud 

Which long had waved triumphantly, 

To man His spirit never bowed — 
His conqueror was Destiny I 

And should his cherished France forget 
What now is due her Chieftain's fame, 

*' Posterity shall pay that debt, 

And render justice to his name." 



34 POEMS. 



AN EVENING HYMN TO MEMORY 

To thee, O briglit, benignant Power 1 
To whom so deep a debt I owe. 

Here at this hushed and holy hour» 
I bow me low. 



And offer up the thanks of one 

Who, though of all once loved bereft. 
Feels not how much he is alone 

While thou art left ; — 

Thou who the light of other days 

Dost on the dreary present shed ; 

Restor'st the past ; and to my gaze 
Bring^st back the dead ! 

Ay, bringest back the dead ; for here. 
Where now I sit companionless, 

A troop of buried forms appear 
And round me press. 

Yet O not as the dead they come, 

To fill the heart with childish fears. 

But those who blessed my humble home 
In happier years. 



POEMS. 

My parents kind are hero again ; — 
My brothers in the glow of hfe ; — 

And ye my gentle sisters twain ; — 
And thou my wife ! 

All, all are here ! and eyes that shone 

With love's pure light are on me still,— 
And voices of familiar tone 
My bosom thrill. 

The body's long endured distress 

In this blight moment is forgot ; — 
The withering sense of loneliness 
Now haunts me not. 

And for tliis sweet— this blessed hour— 
A sun-burst through the clouds of wo, 

To thee, O bright, benignant Pov/er ! 
I bow me low. 



35 



MY MARY. 

I KNELT by the couch where thou, dearest, was lying. 
My heart wrung with anguish thy sufferings to see ; 
But while I heard only the sob of the dying, 
The angels, my Mary, were whispering to thee. 



36 POEMS. 

And while I hung over the clay which the dwelling 
Had been of thy spirit, from thraldom now free, 
And despair choked the sighs that my bosom were swelling. 
The angels, my Mary, were welcoming thee. 

And now, when with sorrow my manhood is shaken, 
For hopes fondly cherished torn rudely from me, 
And my heart for the loss of my first born is breaking, 
The angels, my Mary, rejoice over thee. 



MY SISTER. 

On silent lip and rigid brow, 

My sister ! Death his seal hath set. 
And O to see thee once as now 

Hot tears my cheeks had wet 1 

Yes, ere within thy gentle heart 

Had entered Sorrow's venomed fang 

To look on thee as now thou art 
Had cost me many a pang. 



POEMS. 

And yet upon those lids I gaze, 

Which never shall unclose to bless 

Me with the light there hid, and raise 
My heart in thankfulness. 

For now the long and bitter wo 

Thou didst so meekly bear is o'er ; 

Thy bruised spirit now shall know 
Unkindness never more ; 

And never more upon thy brow 

That hidden grief shall stand confessed 
Which did thy heart consume ; for now 

Thou art indeed at rest ! 



37 



ON A LATE MELANCHOLY EVENT 

The village bell rings out a merry peal ; 
And o'er the dewy lawn a bridal tiain 
Sweeps gaily onward to the House of Prayer. 
The young are mirthful, and the aged feel 
4 



38 POEMS. 

The hours of their lost youth come back again ; 
And all is life and love and gladness there. 
SuSANNE — her parents' blessing and their pride — 
And loved of all — this morn becomes a bride. 

They're nov(7 before the altar. But amid 
That happy group a shadowy being stands, 
Whose hollow eye emits a lurid glow. 
And while the trembling maid, with drooping lid, 
Breathes forth the vow the sacred rite demands, 
Which binds her to another's weal and wo, 
With mocking smile he grasps his venomed dart. 
Lifts it on high, and points it at her heart. 

Again is gathered in that temple old 

A numerous band ; but' sadness veils each brow. 

Old eyes are wet — young voices weep aloud — 

While dismally that village bell is knolled. 

Unerringly the shaft was sped ; and now 

The lovely and beloved is in her shroud. 

Yet mid the wreck of hearts, with ghastly smile. 

The grim Destroyer views his work the while. 



POEMS. 39 



MEMORIES OF THE HEART, 

Visions of our childhood, 

Blotted out with tears ; — 
Golden hopes, long buried 
In the wreck of years ; 

Flowers, which by the wayside 
Perished in their bloom ; — 

Voices, that reply not 
From the silent tomb ; — 

Faces that bent o'er us 

In our cradled rest ; — 
Eyes that woke affection 

In the youthful breast ;— 

In our sleep like phantoms 

Come they and depart — 
Shadows of the memories 

Lingering in the heart. 



40 POEMS. 



THE VOICE OF NATURE. 

The glorious sun ; the moon, so sweetly bright; 

The mountains lifting their proud heads on high 
The stars, mysterious watchers of the night, 

Speak loudly of the might of Deity. 

Yet the sweet floweret peeping from the sod ; 

The dew-drop trembling in the violet's bell ; 
And even the worm that burrows in the clod, 

Do of His power as eloquently tell. 



THE LOSS OF THE LEXINGTON 

A FEARFUL thing-is Death I 
Heaven's chosen minister of wrath I 
That ever through life's weary path 

Man's footsteps followeth ; 
And still the first among his train 
Are haggard grief and writhing pain. 



POEMS. 

For never did depart 
One, even of lowliest estate, 
But wretched and disconsolate 

Was left some loving heart ; 
Some blighted spirit to which Spring 
No more could flower or leaflet bring. 

If then an aimless blow, 
Which but a few fond hearts bereaves, 
Such certain desolation leaves ; 

How infinite the wo 
When, like the wild tornado's blast, 
He o'er a prostrate land hath passed ; 

And buried in one grave 
The glow of health, the light of mirth, 
The gifted and the good of earth, 

The beautiful and brave ; 
The joy of youth and wisdom sage ; 
With manhood's strength and tottering age ! 

Such wo, alas ! is ours ! 
The loving and beloved are wrapped 
In one dark doom ; and rudely snapped 

Is friendship's bond of flowers ;^ 
And o'er us the Destroyer hath 
Unfurled the banners of his wrath ; 
4* 



41 



42 POEMS 



Then well may grief prevail, 
And deeply graved on cheek and brow 
Of every face one meeteth now 

Be sorrow's dismal tale ; 
And yet, how little can we see 
Of the wrung bosom's agony ! 



A DREAM OF THE SEA. 

I ne'er have seen the sea save in my dreams. 
Yet on its beauty, majesty and power 
I have so often looked that now it seems 
Something with which I even from childhood's hour 
Have been acquent ; and of its voice each tone 
Is to my ear familiar as mine own. 

Yes, I have seen it in its every mood. 
Not oftener basking in the morn's sweet light — 
Its brawling humour for awhile subdued 
Beneatij an influence so calm and bright — 
Than when in mountain forms its billows rise, 
And, Titan like, do battle with the skies. 



POEMS. 43 

Nor oftener when the young moon's tender beams 
Glint o'er its surface, which, hke maiden's breast, 
When happy love with gladness fills her dreams, 
So gently sinks and swells in sweet unrest ; 
Than when the sun in midday splendour burns, 
And glance for glance as fiercely back returns. 

And O ! methinks it were a glorious thing 

To make one's home upon the the boundless main ; 

Where tyrant Custom never more could fling 

O'er the free spirit his corroding chain ; 

And feel that, when we sleep beneath its waves. 

Our dust shall mingle not with that of slaves I 

1 had a dream of late wherein the sea 
Appeared in all its terrours. It was night, 
The sun had long been hid, yet tenderly 
Lingered upon the waves a mellow light — 
A softened radiance, such as Memory throws 
Upon the past as life draws to a close. 

The blue sky looked into the bluer ocean 

And saw therein a nether firmament ; 

And through the waters wilh a swan-like motion, 

Like creature proud of power and beauty, went 

Our gallant bark ; — the wind that filled her sheet 

Piped through the cordage, making musick sweet. 



44 POEMS. 

O 'twas an hour when the divinity 

Lodged in the breast of man back to the skies 

Would reascend, in aspirations free, 

As sparks towards the source of heat arise ; — 

An hour of sweet and sabbath-like repose I 

Yet then the Demon of the Tempest rose. 

And though when seen on the horizon's verge, 
A speck he seemed ; now, as with furious speed 
Up heaven's ascent he did his coursers urge, 
He grew to giant size : and soon indeed, 
As on the winds his robes of darkness flew, 
The very heavens were blotted from our view. 

The waves, which at his presence shrank with fear, 
Lashed into madness by the tyrant's rage, 
Their crested heads now in rebellion rear. 
And with th' oppressor fearful warfare wage ; 
And O to see the strife of that dread hour 
Had taught the nothingness of human power I 

Tlie very bark, which man had proudly thought. 
For that it had been fashioned by his skill, 
Would hold the fury of the storm at nought, 
Became the passive creature of its will — 
The plaything of the elements, and driven. 
Like floating reed, before the breath of heaven. 



POEMS. 

Yet long did Hope her cheering light afford 
In that dark hour unto the gallant hearted !— 
But sails are shivered— masts go by the board— 
The pumps arc choked— the very timbers parted ! 
And O how dreadful is the agony 
Of wretches struggling with eternity I 

And hark, that cry !~so wild, so harrowing 1— 
Which far above the howling tempest rose, 
Of those who still to life so madly cling !— 
And now, God ! the waters o'er them close ! 
'Twas terrible '.-and yet, though strange it seem, 
I love the sea even better for that dream. 



45 



TO HENRY OGDEN, Esa 

Upon this morn of merry meetings, 
Of friendly grasps and cordial greetings. 
When grave and gay together mingle, 
And wit abounds and glasses jingle, 
While over all the radiant smile 
Of Beauty sheds her light the while. 



46 POEMS. 

I, to whom health's too great a treasure 
To risk it in the search of pleasure — 
A search too often made in vain — 
Must, prisoner-like, at home remain. 

O how the fount of feeling's stirred 
Whene'er we breathe that magick word — 
Home ! And although the light of mine 
Is quenched, alas ! no more to shine, 
And hushed the cheerful voice whose tone 
Went to the heart like musick's own, 
And Silence broods and moody Sadness 
Where all was light and love and gladness ; 
Still, though of every joy bereft. 
Full many a comfort hath it left ; 
And for whate'er it doth possess 
How deep is my indebtedness 
To him who — prompted by that zeal 
He shows for every creature's weal — 
To one like me — unknown — unfriended — 
And, save by want, unrecommended — 
With ready, generous confidence. 
Opened the way to competence. 

Yes, sir, to you I owe whate'er 
One by long suffering bowed can cheer. 
To you I owe that still I find 
The shelter from the win'try wind 



POEMS. 47 



Which does mine humble roof afford ; 
The frugal meal that crowns my board ; 
The fire that blazes on my hearth, 
And eke my pleasure in the mirth 
Of my dear imps, whose heartsome glee 
Would win a smile from Apathy, 
For if but menaced with distress 
Their mirth to me were bitterness. 
Nay more. To you 1 owe that she — 
Who was the light of life to me — 
When leaving all she valued here 
By death's stern hest, felt not a fear, 
That when she should be with the dead, 
Her little ones could want for bread 
While life to me kind Heaven should lend, 
And Ogden prove their father's friend. 

And yet for all I owe to one 
Who has to me such kindness shown, 
I have but my poor thanks to give. 
Which here I beg you will receive. 
And with them take this wish sincere — 

To YOU AND YOURS A HaPPY YeaR. 



1st Jan. 1836. 



48 POEMS 



A DREAM. 



'TwAS eve. But from the canopy 
Of purple clouds that o'er us hung, 

Upon the crystal lake beneath 
A mellow light was flung. 

And gayly o'er the rippling tide 
Our bark her snowy wings outspread, 

To catch the breath of flowering groves 
Whose sweets were round us shed. 

And by a goodly company 

That gallant vessel's deck was trod ; 
There woman wore her loveHest form, 

And man appeared a God. 

And song, and jest, and idle word 
Were offered up at Folly's shrine. 

While from our jewelled cups of gold 
We drank the ruby wine. 

'Till woman flung the holy veil 

Of maiden modesty aside, 
And with bold eye and liberal tongue 

To ribald speech replied. 



POEMS. 49 



And man, with reason formed to soar 
Above the clouds that shadow earth, 

Stooped his bright spirit in its flight 
To grovel in lewd mirth. 

But now a change came o'er the scene. 

That gorgeous canopy of clouds 
The troubled waters like a pall 

In fearful darkness shrouds. 

And on that turbid lake now lies 
Our gay and gallant bark a wreck ; 

And by a ghastly company 
Now peopled is her deck. 

But still the voice of revelry 

Rose high above both wind and flood ; 
But now our cups are human skulls ! 

And they are brimmed with blood ! 

And mingled with the song and shout, 
Are wailings loud and impious prayer ; 

With laughter wild, and curses deep, 
And bowlings of despair ! 

When lo ! another change. And now 
The heavens a burning dome became ; 

The simoom's breath is in the blast ; 
The lake is liquid flame ! 
5 



50 POEMS 



And horrid monsters, such as ne'er 

Before were seen by mortal eyes, 
Were writhing on the sulphurous flood 

With groans and blasphemies ! 

Yet each in some distorted face 

Could features trace once known full well. 
Though in the eyes that on us glared 

Now burned the hght of hell ! 

And round our reeling bark they go 

With fiendish jeers and harrowing cries, 

To which in deep and threatening voice 
The thunder hoarse rephes. 

Then quailed the sternest spirit ; then 

Shrank the proud heart, and bowed the head 

Then the wild prayer that fear sent forth 
Died on the lips unsaid ; 

For O we felt 'twas vain to call 
On Him we did so late blaspheme, 

And helpless sank we down — down — down ! — 
******* 
Thank Heaven I 'twas but a dream. 



POEMS. 51 



TO 



'TwAS kindly meant ; nor was't unkindly taken, 
Though painfull}- it thrilled to ray heart's core ; — 

For ah ! it did those memories awaken 
Which I had hoped would sleep for ever more. 

But of the world, thou judgest with its spirit, 

And he who leaves — even though by madness driven- 

Its narrow path of right must surely merit 
Man's reprobation and the curse of Heaven I 

O hadst thou known the bitter anguish hidden 
Beneath the smile that seemed to mock at care, 

For very pity thou couldst not have chidden 
The wretch who flies to folly from despair I 



THE AMERICAN CITIZEN 

Mine is a name whose utterance brings 
No thought with which the bosom thrills, 

Yet from the humble acorn springs 
The mighty monarch of the hills. 



52 POEMS. 

Nor prince nor peer hath graced my line, 

And poor my heritage ; but then 
A nobler, prouder boast is mine — 

I AM A FREEBORN CiTIZEN. 

As free in thought — in speech as free 
As wayward winds are in their flight ; 

And owning no supremacy — 
But the supremacy of Right. 

To me the holiest spot of earth 
Is that our Patriot Father's trod ; 

But, while I duly reverence worth, 
I bow the knee but to my God. 

And though inured to needful toil, 
To that no servile feelings cling ; 

For while I tread this sacred soil 
I am, " Ay, every inch a king ! " 



EPITAPH. 

Here lies, to darkness and the worm 
And cold forgetfulncss consigned, 

And mingling with the dust, a form 

That once a spotless soul enshrined ; 



53 



The form of one whose Ufe declared 

How pure the faith that she professed — 

A faith by trials unimpaired — 

And may her God now grant her rest I 

B«t O could human love have stayed 

The course of him whose stern career 
Is onward, with remorseless tread, 

O'er all most loved and valued here, 
The grave should not have claimed her yet- 

Nor yet her care her babes should want- 
A husband's heart be desolate — 

Nor Heaven have gained a habitant. 



THE EARLY LOST. 

Lines on the death of a most amiable girl — Miss Isabella Neville Coffey, 
grand-daughter of Mr. Joseph Molyneux, of this city. 

A BEING from the earth has passed 

Whose brief existence — bright as brief — 

A momentary radiance cast 
O'er hearts now wrapped in murkiest grief 
5* 



54 POEMS 



Alas for human love ! and him 

Who rests his happiness thereon ; 

A bubble floating on the brim 

Of life's dark cup — and then is gone : 

A rainbow — fading while we gaze ; — 
A flower — that withers in its bloom ;— 

A meteor dazzHng with its blaze — 
To leave behind a deeper gloom ; — 

A plant that springe th proudly forth, 
But, like the baneful Upas tree. 

Unto the soil that gives it birth, 
Brings blight and stern sterility. 

And, Oh ! for human pride ! when even 
Mind's glittering ray is but the light 

That gleams along the northern heaven, 
Yet cold and cheerless leaves the night. 

For unto her whose loss we mourn 
Did Heaven its noblest gifts impart ; 

Yet ne'er in mortal breast was borne 
A kinder or an humbler heart. 

And O what fond imaginings — 

What glorious hopes, tliat lustre gave 

To life's most sad, unlovely things, 
Are buried in her early grave. 



POEMS. 55 



And yet the gentle slumberer 

As sweetly sleeps beneath the sod, 

As on the bosom erst of her 

Who hath but led the way to God. 

O earth ! lie lightly on that breast — 
The home of gentleness and worth ! 

And thou, O Father ! to thy rest 
A spirit take too pure for earth I 



ANNE O'NEIL. 

A FEW short months agone, and thou 
To our admiring gaze didst seem, 

With thy sweet smile and sunny brow, 
The bright creation of a dream. 

And even like a dream has passed 

Thy life ; no cloud of grief or shame 

Was o'er thy bright existence cast 

Till Death, like sleep to childhood, came. 



56 POEMS 



And folded thee in his emhrace ; 

When thou thy lovely head didst bow 
Like the pale floweret that we place 

Upon thy pulseless bosom now. 

This sweet and fragile flower, of thee 
How meet an emblem, gentle maid ! 

Like thine its virgin purity ; — 

Like thee it blossomed but to fade. 

Thou'rt gone ! — yet beauty o'er its home 
Still fondly lingers, like a ray 

Of sunshine on some classick dome 
That lovely is amid decay. 



SONNETS. 

I KNOW 'tis wisdom's part to be content 
Where'er our lot in life by Heaven is cast. 
And therefore would I bind my spirit fast 
To the dull desk, whereat a life is spent 



POEMS. 

I fondly deemed for nobler purpose meant. 
The dream of boyhood ! But when spring ia come, 
And the sweet sun-light glinteth through the gloom 
Wherein for dreary months I have been pent, 
Thoughts of mine early haunts— the breezy hill, 
The quiet valley and the sunny plain, 
The leaping torrent and the gliding rill, 
And forest echoing to the wild bird's strain — 
My spirit with such passionate longings fill 
That duty strives to fetter it in vain. 



When to the earth my spirit has been weighed 

By sordid penury's corroding chain ; 

When withering care and unrelenting pain 

Upon my bosom vulture-like have preyed ; 

When the sweet light of love that round me played 

In life's blest morning has been quenched in death, 

And all the heart most fondly cherisheth 

By one rude blast has in the dust been laid, 

I sometimes have been forced, with him of old, 

To cry, " Was ever sorrow like to mine I" 

But when on every brow that I behold 

I see impressed the universal sign 

Of human wo, I hush my plaint, and try. 

At least, to bear my burthen silently. 



67 



58 POEMS 



Would I were with the dead ! if with the dead 

The weary spirit may indeed find rest ; 

And when the earth on her maternal breast 

Hath kindly pillowed aching heart and head, 

Not only shall our tears no more be shed 

In bitterness o'er all that made us blest, 

Nor shall the vulture passions more molest 

The hearts that 'neath their talons long have bled. 

But even the memories of our hopes and fears — 

Our guilty joys and their unholy train — 

1'he frenzies of the heart and of the brain — 

Remorse's riving pangs and scalding tears-— 

Be buried with us in the peaceful grave, 

Death were the dearest boon I now from Heaven would crave. 



TO MISS S 



We call that love heroick when the wife — 
Though thereunto enjoined by holiest vow — 
With uncomplaining voice and cloudless brow 
Braves toil and pain and penury and strife 
For him who was and is her all of life ; 
And beautiful the mother's love, which knows 
No change howe'er the wind of fortune blows, 
Though every blast be with affliction rife. 



POEMS. 59 

Yet each of earthly feehng bears some stain. 

O how unhke the love that prompted thee, 

Lady, to leave home, country, all to be 

A ministering angel at the couch of pain ; 

To illume the darkening mind with Faith's pure light, 

And aid the spirit in its heavenward flight. 



TO 



Spirit of Beauty ! from what radiant sphere 

Hast thou descended with thine eyes of light, 

That smile than blush of early morn more bright, 

And voice whose every tone falls on the ear 

Like musick — such as Heaven's chosen may hear 

In their abodes of blissfulness above, 

Where tongues and harps and hearts are tuned to love 

And wherefore dost thou with the things appear 

Of this dull earth ? Was it that man might see, 

By looking on that peerless form of thine. 

How perfect may be wrought by Hand Divine 

Beings resembling poor mortality ? 

Or hast thou come to bring us back once more 

To worship as our fathers did of yore ? 



60 POEMS. 



Death levels all distinctions ; so does grief. 
The feeling of a common loss will bind 
In bonds of fellowship the haughty mind 
With the most humble ; and a sweet rehef 
It is to the o'erburthened heart to find 
'T is not alone in wretchedness, although 
The one that doth participate its wo 
Beats in the bosom of the meanest hind. 
I late beheld two mourners ; — one was young, 
Wealthy and proud, the other poor and old, 
And of a race despised, yet fondly clung 
They heart to heart. What made the meaner bold 
Had humbled her superior — the same blow 
Had widowed both — they equals were in wo I 



TO J. C. L. 

I pr'ythee, Craufurd, what can tempt thy stay 
In scenes which to the eye are fair no more ? 
The husbandman hath gathered in his store, 
And forest leaves are tinted with decay ; 
The flowers are withered that were erst so gay — 
Like youthful hopes by the cold breath of time — 
And to some sunnier, more congenial clime 
The warblers of the grove have winged their way. 



POEMS. 

While we have all that eye and ear delight. 
Broadway is a parterre of living flowers 
Such as can blossom in no land but ours, 
And we have musick too — at least at night — 
Sweeter than that of birds. Then, pr'ythee, why 
Dost linger now when all things bid thee fly ? 



61 



A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 

Spare me, O God ! yet for a little, spare ! 
1 ask not length of days for hoarding treasure, 
Nor yel to squander in pursuit of pleasure ; 
Of either hitherto but small my share. 
And now to hope for more 1 will not dare. 
Nor even for life do I ask life of Thee. 
But that my little ones in infancy 
Be not bereft of their last parent's care. 
Alas ! how could they bear so stern a fate I 
My Mary, so mimosa-like ! — and she — 
Albeit better fitted for the strife 
The world enjoins — my dark eyed darling, Kate ! 
Then grant, for their dear sakes, my prayer to Thee, 
And their young lips shall thank thee for my life. 
6 



02 POEMS. 

TO JOAN OF ARC. 

AN ALBUM PRINT. 

Poor trembling girl ! where has the spirit fled 

That nerved so late thy gentle breast to brave 

All perils, thy beloved land to save 

From foreign thraldom and a tyrant's tread ? 

Had War, and all that fills the heart with dread — 

The strife, the rout, the shrieks and groans of those 

Trampled to earth alike by friends and foes — 

Less terrors for thee than that mitred head ? 

Or shrinkest thou from what thou shalt endure 

Ere Heaven's dread minister, — the flames, — shall sever 

The bonds that bind to earth a soul so pure, 

And give it freedom — boundless and forever ? 

O no ! Thy fears are now of neither judge nor stake, 

They are for France — for thy loved country's sake I 



On looking to the past, how brief appears 
The time since first I entered on this scene 
Of cares ; although few of my days have been 
Such as with pleasure we in after years 
Look back upon, unless there's joy in tears. 
Yet have I measured more than half the span 



POEMS. 63 

By heaven allotted to the ago of man, 

For I this day have seen six times six years. 

And now, if called upon to render up 

My life to Him from whom I did receive 

That boon, O what account have I to give 

Of moments fled ? Alas, of Folly's cup 

The maddening potion have I drained, and find 

That only bitterness remains behind. 



Nov. Wi, 1836. 



My Mary ! mine ! Alas, no longer ynme I 

He, who but lent her for a space so brief 

To w^ean my heart from brooding o'er its grief 

When forced its dearest treasure to resign, 

Hath called her hence. Shall I with murmuring 

My spirit waste that she, for whom my prayers 

Unceasing rose, so soon has 'scaped the snares 
That ever through life's path around us cHng ? 
O no. Though nature her prerogative 
To weep asserts, I murmur not. And yet 
'Tis hard indeed to stifle all regret 

When all is gone for which we wish to live ! 
And now is snapt the last link of the chain 
That bound my heart to earth — yet w^ill I not complain. 



64 POEMS 



LIGHT SHINE TH IN DARKNESS. 

When links which heart to heart have bound 
Are shivered by the stroke of death, 

And every flower that blossomed round 
Is withered by his poisonous breath ; — 

"What in that hour of anguish deep 

The sinking spirit shall sustain ? 
The blessed hope that they who sleep 

In Christ, in him shall rise again. 



TO MARGARET. 

When the gay and the thoughtless together are met, 

I join in their revels, and seem to forget. 

The world seeth not 'tis but playing a part, 

For what eye can fathom the depths of the heart ? 

Yet O, 1 forget not ! — nor sleeping nor waking I 
My heart amid riot is silently breaking ! 
But only in secret his tears can be shed 
Who, bound to the living, yet worships the dead. 



POEMS. 65 

For not in the moment thou dearest wast given 
To him that adored thee hy bounteous Heaven, 
And the lips to the troth of the heart utterance gave, 
Wast thou dearer than now when thou'rt cold in the grave ! 



SONG. 

O WHA.T has man to do with thought, 

Or aught that can destroy, 
One moment of the fleeting hour 

We consecrate to joy ? 
Come twine the festive rosy wreath. 

And bind it on my brow ; 
And fill the wine cup to the brim ; 

We will be happy now. 

Away ! away ! — my brain is pierced — 

A thorn is in the wreath ! 
Light laughs the goblet's ruby wave — 

Yet poison lurks beneath ! 
And O through every bursting vein 

Its burning currents roll ; — 
Tear — tear the chaplet from my brow !- 

Dash — dash to earth the bowl ! 
6* 



66 POEMS 



TO 



The World, that meddling gossip, who> 
Does what she has least right to do, 
Has told strange tales of me at times ; 
And not the least among my crimes 
It is that I am seldom seen 
Where pious worshippers convene, 
And that even in the House of God 
I have been known to smile and nod. 
Grave charges these ; and, enire nousi, 
I fear they can be proven too. 
For very oft the pew that I 
Must pay for others occupy. 
And I have sometimes smiled to see 
How zealous hypocrites can be, 
And humbly must confess that prosing 
Even in a church can set me dozing. 
Yet, howsoe'er the dame may doubt, 
I am a worshipper devout 
Of all tliat's worthy mortal love 
On earth, or in the Heavens above, 
And will in fervour yield to no man 
In worship of that goddess — Woman. 

Woman, if not indeed divine. 

What earthly power can equal thin« * 



POEMS. 

While every thing that moves below 
Doth unto man obedience owe, 
By Him who that dominion gave 
Was man designed for woman's slave. 
Ay, look ye to the past as far as 
The time of Helen and of Paris, 
Or even to the days of Adam — 
The first to bow the knee to Madam — 
And you in every age will find 
That her's has been the ruling mind. 
Then what by her shall be withstood, 

By whom the strongest was subdued ? 

To whom the wisest was a fool ? 

The conqueror of worlds a tool ? 

And who — as by these lines you 

Has made a rhymer even of me 7 



67 



TO 



While gazing on thy beauties rare 
With raptures never felt before, 

I fondly deemed that one so fair 
Must be than woman more. 



68 POEMS. 

But woman thou hast proved thou art. 

That I the truth had sooner known, 
Ere had thy falsehood crushed a heart 

That beat for thee alone ! 

And yet — but distant be the time — 
Remorseful sighs thy breast may swell 

To think of one whose only crime 
Was loving thee too well ! 



TO 



Upon its native thorn, 

In vesture gemmed with dew, 
This rose at early morn 

In virgin beauty grew. 
And from the parent stem, 

That bore it pridefully, 
I snatched the beauteous gem — 

It was so much like thee. 

A kiss I did impart 

Unto the blushing flower, 

Then pressed it to the heart 

That long has owned thy power ; 



POEMS 



69 



And fiom my heart to thine 
This message bade it take, 

" I come from love's own shrine, 
O wear me for its sake I " 



SONG. 

Believe me, love, the golden light 

That has our path illumed, 
Shall cheer us onward till the life 

That feeds its flame's consumed ; 
And when each throbbing pulse is still, 

Each breathing form laid low. 
Our souls, upspringing from the dust, 

Shall catch the sacred glow. 

In happy boyhood thee I loved, 

And thee in manhood's prime ; 
Nor love thee less though on my head 

Have fallen the snows of time ; 
And thee as truly will I love 

While life beats in my breast ; 
And Heaven would be no Heaven to me 

Were Heaven by thee unblest 1 



70 POEMS. 



T O 



When life was in its hopeful prime — 

The morning of a glorious day — 
In sweet idlesse without a crime 

I might have whiled an hour away ; — 
To wear the light and rosy chain 

By Beauty wove have been content, 
While trusting I might yet regain 

What was so bootlessly mispent. 

But now, that Time has blanched my hair, 

And set his impress on my brow, 
The sage Experience cries, " Forbear! 

It is too late to trifle now ; — 
For whatsoe'er thou hast to do 

Is on the instant to be done. 
Nor shouldst thou fondly hope to woo 

One who could scarce in years be won." 

Then, though I know how very sweet 

The hours of dalliance may prove 
When two fond hearts in secret meet 

Where every thing incites to love, 
Such bliss it is not his to know 

Who cannot his lost j^outh renew I 
And I — alas that it is so — 

Would wed — but have not time to woo. 



POEMS. 71 



TO HARRY. 



Heaven's blessings on that sunny brow ! — those bright and laughing eyes, 
Where ne'er, to dim their radiance, may envious clouds arise ! 
Be still thy heart as light as now thy frolick footsteps gay, 
And be thy voice like summer brook that singeth all the day. 

Thou yet hast known but three short years — three bright spring days to 

thee, 
With no rude blast to bend the flowers that prank the verdant lea — 
The hand of Care has guided thee where Fancy bade thee rove, 
And o'er thy timid steps hath watched th' unsleeping eye of Love. 

But fleeting is the spring of life as clouds that fleck the sky. 
And hopes that wear the rose's tint even like the rose will die ; 
But in the way of life, my boy, — a weary way at best — 
May still the consciousness of right be sunshine to thy breast. 



TO KATE. 



They say thou art not pretty. But O a parent's eye 
Beholds a thousand beauties where others none descry. 
The little graceful gambols, the many nameless wiles 
That smooth away our wrinkles and bring us back our smiles, 
Though heeded by no other, to him a joy impart 
That ever makes his offspring soem lovely to the heart. 



72 POEMS. 

But thou art more than pretty, my darling Kate, to me ; 

Thy form so much resembles that shrined in memory. 

And as with the eyes thou lookcst, and speakest with the tongae 

Of her who through the tempest to me unshaken clung, 

That if indeed less pretty than all must own thou art, 

Thou ever, Kate, most fondly shouldst nestle in my heart. 



A RESOLVE. 

Harp of wo ! forever 

Silent be thy stran ! 
Song of mine shall never 

Waken thee again. 

The sweets of melancholy 
Bitterness impart, 
And grieving is a folly 

That wears away the heart. 

Withered though the flowers 
I have nursed with care, 

Still in other bowers 

Shall they bloom as fair. 

Then, the Past forgetting, 
Let me turn mine eyes. 

From the sun that's setting, 
To that which is to rise. 

And, since Memory bringeth 

Sadness in her lay, 
The madrigal Hope singeth 

Shall henceforth cheer my way I 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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